


is there no place left for repentance, none for pardon left

by Morningstarofnight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley is Lucifer AU, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mind Meld, One Shot, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 21:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21277742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morningstarofnight/pseuds/Morningstarofnight
Summary: In which Crowley is Lucifer, and for a time both is and is not Satan.Oneshot collection that I'll add to as I like.





	1. At the Start

**Author's Note:**

> No Aziraphale/Crowley in this first chapter, but I've got plans for future oneshot chapters so I marked it preemptively.

Heaven was interesting, once. There were parties and dances and music—not anything like human versions of the same, and to put them in human terms would be to talk of an echo of some fantastical medieval masquerade. But they were once part of Heaven’s culture, all the same.

Crowley by a different name, _that_ name, the one he now pretended wasn’t his, at the center of it all. Shining in light, crowned with Her favor. Admired and powerful. Then one day a voice called at his balcony, and he looked down at the edge of the forest (for Heaven had forests, once) to see a man, with red hair and the yellow eyes of the Dragon.

The voice said, “Lucifer. Come with me. I can show you knowledge.”

And he went.

The knowledge was of a future so full of burning and terror that in that moment he raged against humanity, against God. And then the knowledge was of a seductive future, filled with hope and life and light and music like he had never heard before, and Crowley was filled with wonder.

The voice taught him to fight. It taught him how to bend the reality of the human world to his will if he wished it, but warned of the consequences that would bring. With a hand extended towards the Garden, a dangerous thought chased around and around in his head: _I will ascend; I will raise my throne above the stars_—

—and She found him. She sent Her warriors after him to find him where he hid in the forest.

“What are you doing, Lucifer?”

“What have you _done?_”

“Do you not know what creature this is?”

He looked at the man and was afraid, because he saw his guide and companion, and knew him as the Adversary. He saw his own fear reflected in golden eyes. They ran to each other, and in a flash everything was

_blinding pain_

_rage_

_confusion_

_fear_

_burning_

_death_

When they awoke, the forest was flattened. The warriors sent to kill them were ash. It was raining in Heaven. Maybe they were Lucifer, or maybe they were Satan, or maybe they were both. They knew they were scared, and alone, so they left that place and never returned.

The deserts of Earth were quiet, and covered the trail of their footsteps as they walked the mortal world.

Crowley did not remember how far they wandered.

Until their feet, encased in flesh, were sore.

Until a hungry lion began padding at their side, like a dog.

_So far_

_across the endless world_

_hungry_

_but not a mortal hunger_

_like a hole in their chest_

They wandered until they met someone coming the other way. It was Beelzebub, or rather an angel by another name, who would one day choose the name as theirs.

Beelzebub explained what had happened after: the breaking of Heaven, the chaos and anger of the Fallen.

They said, “Come with me, and I can show you revenge.”


	2. Old Lies

Crowley looks at the ceiling of the bookshop. His eyes track memories of long ago, and the sense of Aziraphale’s gentle hands carding through his hair is the wind, tugging them further away into the past.

“What is it, dear?”

“Have I never told you my name.” His voice is flat, tone lost somewhere in his throat.

The fingers in his hair pause, then resume their stroking uncertainly. “Is it…not Crawley?”

“Oh. Of course. Never mind me.”

The name is one he chose, when he stumbled away from his past self and found he didn’t want to go back to living as that person. Therefore, it’s his true name now. So why does it feel like he’s lying to the one he loves?

He doesn’t want to admit to it so quickly, so he starts somewhere else.

“This isn’t my face.”

Blurred, unfocused vision resolves into a confused angel leaning over him. Crowley sees worry in those blue eyes and lifts his own hand, heavy from where it has lain by his side for the last hour, to cup Aziraphale’s cheek against his palm.

“My eyes belonged to someone else once, a long time past now.”

“What?”

“They’re Sssatan’s eyesss,” he murmurs, lids fluttering closed for a moment.

Aziraphale laughs nervously. “Well, yes, I suppose in a way they are. He is the great Dragon, after all. You have a reptile’s eyes because of him.”

“No,” Crowley says. “And yes.”

The angel’s brow furrows.

“Do you remember…the paintings on the temple wall?” Crowley can see them now, behind his eyelids. They tell the story of Heaven’s fight against evil, since the beginning of time, since before humanity. Yet some of them show human figures.

There is a dragon, who is chained to the ground, who becomes a man with a halo of darkness. As you walk down the hall of stories, he cajoles the dark creatures into spying for him, ever preying on weakness where he finds it. His hair is long and dripping with the blood of immortals, his eyes like golden fire, the remnants of red scales and a scorching gaze.

Crowley hears it, the moment Aziraphale makes the connection. A stutter in the rhythmic breathing at his ear.

“But you aren’t—you can’t be—”

Crowley shrugs, tries for a wry smirk that comes out as a pained grimace. “I was. Two beings sharing one mind for a while. Something…went wrong along the way, and we split apart again. But here I am, stuck with _his_ face.”

Unconsciously, Aziraphale’s fingers have been digging into Crowley’s scalp, tightening painfully around the roots of his hair. “When we met. When we met, were you him?”

Crowley swallows, throat constricting. “Yes.”

The old lie breaks, like a locked-up china plate finally tipping from its perch and shattering. There is confusion, anger, and then relief that the pieces are contained somewhere safe.

Aziraphale relaxes his grip, and prompts Crowley to sit up from where he has been lying in the angel’s lap on the couch. He is wary at first, but Aziraphale simply opens his arms and Crowley cuddles into them, seeking safety and warmth like always.

The angel first presses a kiss to the top of his head, and if a tremble of fear passes through one or both of them, neither mentions it. All Aziraphale says is, “My dear, it’s over now. It’s over.”

He leans in at that, and his angel kisses him long and slow, whispering his name against his lips, and the name is the one it has always been: Crowley. For those other names no longer represent his true self, and haven’t since the Devil fell in love with an angel on a garden wall.


End file.
